


As It Was When It Was

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [48]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Cats, F/M, Fade to Black, Open Relationships, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few things in life more embarrassing than being confronted with the evidence of your past mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As It Was When It Was

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: straight up 6/clara fic. Dooo iiiiiiiit

The phone rings. Neither of them move to answer it. Clara’s too far away and too comfy, curled up on an armchair with a book. The Doctor has that look on his face that means he’s currently working himself up to the top bit of an anxious spiral, based on a hunch.

“Pick it up,” he says, pretending like the clockwork squirrel he’s fiddling with is too important to halt work on.

“You pick it up. Your TARDIS, your phone.” She turns a page deliberately. She’s not actually reading anymore, but she’s not about to betray the adrenaline rush coursing through her. No one ever calls the TARDIS just to chat.

The phone keeps ringing. With some added flashing lights, just in case they couldn’t hear it.

“Pick up the damn-”

But he has, finally, gingerly pinching the receiver between thumb and forefinger. “A hoy-hoy.” He frowns, frowns again. “Sorry, who is this? I think you have the wrong - oh. Oh _no._ ”

Clara slides a scrap piece of paper in between the pages she’s ostensibly currently on, and closes the book.

“Absolutely not - no - alright, stop - shut _up_ , please, fine, yes, alright. Okay. Yes. Buh-bye now.” He slams the receiver down, eyebrows fully unfurled, lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Telemarketer?”

“Worse,” he hisses, then stalks off somewhere into the depths of the ship.

She puts the book back on the shelf, and follows.

 

* * *

“I’ve always loved seeing horribly awkward baby pictures of people I’m dating, and this is gonna be so much better.” She grins, then gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, because sometimes he mistakes her good-natured ribbing for genuine insults.

“It’s no laughing matter, Clara,” he says, unspooling a coil of copper wire. “Linking two versions of myself and my TARDIS together is an extremely complicated and dangerous task. And meeting yourself - there’s always a risk.”

“All in a day’s work, then? Or have I gotten incompetent in my old age,” says a half-familiar voice.

The Doctor whips his head around. Clara follows his line of sight. There’s a man standing at the end of the hallway, looking inordinately pleased with himself. Behind him, a portal in the air is snapping shut, spitting out a woman.

Not her Doctor, but very much A Doctor, going by the preening and the terrible fashion sense. And a companion, going by context. Apparently he hadn’t always gone for the pretty young things. Clara adjusted a few of her assumptions.

“Sorry to barge in like this,” the woman says. “But I assume you know what it’s like. My name is Evelyn, this prancing oaf is the Doctor.” She looks up him with a mix of fondness and exasperation.

“Clara,” Clara says. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance, I’m sure.”

They shake hands; behind them, the Doctors glaring at each other. Themselves.

“Doctor,” the other Doctor says.

“ _Doctor_." Teeth bared in a patently false, mildly alarming grin.

“So! As much as I’m sure we’d all love to stand around chit-chatting, there’s the very small matter of _all of time and space being torn to shreds_ that we should attend to?” Evelyn tucks her arm into the crook of her Doctor’s elbow, and yanks him forward.

 

* * *

There are cats, is the situation. A whole colony of them, left alone to breed and chew on things and pee wherever they pleased. Many, many cats. And the many, many cats had managed to break a particular widget, which had started a cascade of failing systems, which had left their TARDIS not only adrift and rudderless but in very real danger of exploding.

(“An infestation,” other-Doctor had said.

“Yes, but what an adorable one,” Clara said, scritching the chin of a tabby.)

The cats had been successfully sequestered, in probably a hilarious sequence of events, going by the laughter Evelyn barely suppressed during the briefing. The cats could now live fulfilling, healthy lives, far far away from the ship’s sensitive parts. Something about a sealed compartment, farm-shaped, full of mice and birds and plants and absolutely no technical components accessible at all.

It’s the damage they’d done - and here’s the part where Clara mostly zoned out, picking out the occasional key word - that was the problem. A particular thing needed to be replaced. And there aren’t many places to pick up replacement parts for a Type-40 TARDIS. Hence the general distress-call to himself. Not his fault this particular self had been the first to answer.

The TARDIS, the cat-infested TARDIS, is as grouchy as any patient. Clara’s TARDIS (version: cat-free) is understandably a little reluctant to be used as organ-donor. They can pull this off, no ill-effects, the Doctor has since put in enough redundancies to not miss this particular doohickey. It’s a bit of a delicate operation, is all. They’ll have to time it right, move carefully and quickly, to extract the dongle and then install it before either TARDIS balks.

Two teams, then. Clara raises her eyebrow at Evelyn - _swap?_

Evelyn nods discretely, the barest hint of a smirk playing around her lips. “I think it’d be good to have a fresh set of eyes on the problem, don’t you?”

The Doctor, the other Doctor, looks down at Evelyn and then over at Clara. Eyes narrowing. He’s intrigued, for sure. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to keep an eye on him, in case he tries anything funny.”

“Doctor,” Clara starts. “My Doctor, I mean - could the two of you possibly have code-names? In case of emergency? And just in general because this is kind of making my head hurt.”

“Doctor one and Doctor two? I’d be Doctor one, of course,” other-Doctor says.

Clara’s Doctor sneers.

“Doctor red and Doctor blue,” Evelyn mutters.

“Blondie,” Clara says decisively. She points at Blondie. “And Owl,” pointing at Owl.

“Needs must, I suppose,” Blondie huffs. He pats Evelyn on the back, leans down to whisper something in her ear.

 

Clara grabs Owl’s arm and pulls him behind a bulkhead. “Okay. A few questions.”

“If it’s about the outfit, I don’t know what I was thinking either.”

“Shh. No. Question one: do you remember this? Like, do you know what’s about to happen?”

“Ish. The phone call felt familiar, but I didn’t know it was coming beforehand. As for what happens next - this is a tear in the web of time, and time repairs itself. I do feel - ” He breaks off, gives her a strange look. “I have some memories, possibly, but they’re jumbled, and they come and go. No, I don’t know what the future holds.”

“Question two. Is it wrong that I’m. Kind of attracted to him?” She bites her lip, consciously steadies her breathing. As far as she’s been able to tell, they’re committed but not exclusive - he’s told her often enough to go find a nice normal person without so much baggage, there’s the general implication that hook-ups here and there weren’t something that bothered him. But this was…weird, to say the least.

He frowns, melodramatically recoils, his face sort of crumpling in on itself, chin vanishing into his neck. “Him? Really? _Him?_ ”

She shrugs. “He’s you. I like you. And he’s cute. You’re cuter, but. Yeah.”

“I trust your judgment. More importantly, I trust that I’ll continue to not remember anything that may or may not happen.”

“So if anything does happen…?”

He stares at her blankly. “Yes?”

Ducking into his personal space, one arm around his waist, the other toying with his shirt buttons. “You’d be alright with me doing this with…you?”

The penny drops. He grimaces again, but there’s something else there as well. His ego is bolstered, certainly. And maybe he’s a little, just a little, into the idea. “If you must,” he says.

 

* * *

There are few things in life more embarrassing than being confronted with the evidence of your past mistakes. Remember when you thought you were hot shit? Remember when you thought that outfit was cool? Remember when your hair was -

“Dress-code becomes a bit relaxed in the future, then, hmm?” Evelyn, rudely interrupting the Doctor’s internal monologue. Giving him a once-over, clearly not impressed.

“Sorry, wasn’t aware this was a formal occasion,” he huffs. Shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Never knew how important fashion was to you.”

“It’s not. Clearly. Look at me, I’ve been in comfortable cardigans and sensible shoes for the past two decades. But it was important to you. And I’d wager it still is. What is it now, then? Have you gone punk rock? Believe me, Doctor, I’ve taught enough students who cared too much about not seeming to care at all to not notice the signs.”

He glares at all; she glares back. He’s the first to break. Some things don’t change.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he admits. “Been playing with some different things. Nothing quite seems to fit, though.”

“You’re less of an eye-sore, I’ll give you that. Even if you do look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“There’s another - I’ve got something. Hold on, right? If the alarms start going, run.” He dashes off, towards where maybe the wardrobe room is. He’ll show her. He’s still got it. Sure, he’s too cool now to really care, but he can look put-together if he has to. What was it, where was it, that thing he’d seen -

When he dramatically re-enters the room, she’s in the process of assembling a cup of cocoa, compact folding kettle opened and burbling on the console. She’d found the water taps, then. And isn’t paying any attention to him. He backs up a few steps, clears his throat, then re-re-enters. Arms spread wide: _hey, look at me_.

For all his pomp and ego he’s still not entirely sure that he ever looks like he’s something you’d want to notice. His brain, sure, it’s a basic fact that mentally he’s very impressive. And he can be charming, when he wants to be. But he knows abstractly he’s sort of…not much. Has never been much. Back then, at least, he hadn’t looked like he’d fall over in a stiff breeze. Had looked young and hale and hearty. Now, eh. Now he looks like this. Doesn’t usually bother him, but sometimes, just a little bit, he wants his half-accidental choice in bodies to be validated.

Hence the nice velvet coat, the crisp white shirt, the waistcoat that does things for Clara so maybe it works on other people as well. Hence the nerves.

“That’s better,” she says simply, although her gaze drags a little bit more slowly over him than it had before. “Come drink a cup of cocoa. It’s nice and hot, and you look like you get cold easily.”

 

* * *

Blondie’s nothing at all like her Doctor - he’s too bold and too bright, his face too round and too young. But the cockiness, the arrogance, oh, that’s just the same. The sadness in his eyes, that strange vulnerability beneath all his armor.

She watches him wade through cables, neon-blue coat swirling around him. The determined expression, the way his trousers cling to his thighs. The halo of his hair, glowing under the emergency lights.

“The teleport line is open, we’re in place. Nothing to do now but wait for your scrawny old man to get around to his half of the plan.” He’s still poking at buttons, flipping toggle switches Clara is fairly certain do nothing. His broad back tense under the frock coat, fabric pulled tight between his shoulders.

It feels just a little bit like cheating when she comes up behind him, puts her hand on his arm, silently willing him to stop moving. And when he does stop moving, his hesitance and confusion palpable. Her hand on his neck, thumb rubbing the edge of his hairline.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” she says.

“I take it we have some sort of arrangement. You and the me I’ll become.” He turns around, hands wrapped easily around her wrists, pulling her arms away from him. But not letting go, which is the important part. He’s still holding onto her.

“Yeah. An arrangement, guess you could call it that. But we’re - close. I know you, Doctor. And I’d love to get to know more of you.” She slips her arms free of his loose grasp, puts her hands on his chest, over his hearts. Thumb brushing over the charmingly-silly cat pin, tucking under his lapels, sliding down.

“Tell me why it is I trust you, Clara. Tell me why I feel like we’ve met before.” His voice is low and husky, so unlike the voice she’s used to hearing but something familiar, something comfortable in the tenor and timbre.

“Deja vu,” she says. Her hands spanning as much of his waist as they can, fingers spread and digging just a little into his soft belly.

The little gasp he makes as she goes up on tip-toes to kiss him. His warm, solid presence against her. Nothing at all and too much by half like the Doctor she knows. He melts in a very predictable way: knees bending to meet her height, arms wrapped carefully around her, letting her take the lead.

 

* * *

“Thing’s sent. Job done. So that clown can leave now.”

“Heard that,” the clown says over the fuzzy comms line, seeming a little out of breath. He’d probably attempted a light jog.

“You were supposed to,” the Doctor replies.

“ _Children_. Please, can we not.” Evelyn, rolling her eyes.

“Your TARDIS is fine now, mine will learn to live with the damage. You’ll forget this ever happened. I won’t, but then I’m much more experienced than you are in this sort of thing, so-”

“Doctor. Shut up.” Clara, mouth a touch too close to whatever microphone they had over there.

Evelyn raises an eyebrow, buries a smirk behind her mug.

He cuts the line, leans back against the console. “So.”

“So.”

“It’s been good seeing you again, Evelyn,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

“I hope you’re not going to tell me what happens. I mean, obviously we - we can’t keep traveling forever, I know that much. But please don’t get maudlin on me now, I deal with that enough from you as it is.”

He smiles, smooths himself down, hands over the velvet that does, just about, seem to fit him. And he goes to her, the mug of cocoa pushed gently aside, a stray lock of hair tucked back behind her ear. He kisses her on the forehead, then tips her chin up and kisses her chastely on the lips.

“Thank you for…being you,” he says, pulling her into a hug. “You mean more to him than he knows how to say.”

 

* * *

He’s moping. Or, not quite moping, but in that weird distant headspace he goes to sometimes. So much history, it’s understandable he tends to get lost in it. Clara gives him a few hours, waits for him to work through whatever it is he’s working through. Eventually, she runs out of patience.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hi there.” He’s got the clockwork squirrel in his hands, not doing anything to it, just turning it around. Fingers brushing over the mechanisms, cogs ticking past each other.

“D'you remember now? What happened?”

“Just about.”

She sighs. Takes the squirrel out of his hands, sets it on his workbench. Eases herself onto his lap. His face in her hands, angles and hollows and wrinkles. She tries to see the man he’d been, once. Tries to reconcile the Doctor he is with the Doctor he’d been. Figures it doesn’t matter so much if she can’t, not really, if too much time has passed, too many things have happened. She wonders if that’s what he’s thinking about now: the boy he no longer was, so terribly young, unaware of what the future held. What he’d do, one day. How much he’d lose.

She wonders if he’s thinking about the Moment or about Gallifrey or about whatever mistakes he’d had to have made with Evelyn (because he always, always made mistakes). She wonders if he can recall what it was like to be with her as someone else, if he’s looking at her with a new set of eyes now.

“It’s you,” she says. “Just you. All of you. If you’re worried.”

“Not worried about that, no.” He smiles, lets her push him back, her hands over his hearts. Lets her unbutton his waistcoat, shirt, palms flat on his narrow chest.

“Although. Having met a version of you that wasn’t painfully skinny - and yes, I’m aware you have a bit of a tummy, and no, it doesn’t count - is it weird I kind of want to bake you a pie or three?” She squeezes his very slight bit of pudge, gives him the grin she makes when she’s afraid he might mistake her good-natured ribbing for actual insults.

“I’d say that’d be fine, only you burn everything.”

“Shut up,” she says, pinching him as punctuation. “Or I’ll cancel your subscription to the Cat Fancier’s Association magazine.”

He groans in response, half-exasperated and half-turned on, as she stops whatever retort he might have made with her mouth. He shuts up, and lets her take the lead. Some things don’t change.


End file.
